Work Text:
He'll be the first to admit that he is not a tactile man. Most of the time, Harold can do without touch. Sometimes, though, it is welcome, and, even more rarely, he seeks it out.
John, he knows, relishes those times.
Harold joins him on the sofa, pressing up close to John's side on Wren's plump couch. With a small, happy sigh, John wraps an arm around his shoulders and tugs him even closer, onto his lap, and Harold leans into his warm, broad strength, letting his hands fall where they like.
"Hi there," John says, and buries a kiss in Harold's hair.
Harold smiles to himself. "Hello."
"Feeling cuddly tonight, Finch?"
Harold hums in affirmation. "I am. It's been a very good day."
"Good." As it often does, John's other hand settles on Harold's belly, a comforting weight upon his body, warm through his thin cotton shirt. "I had a good day, too."
It was a good day. Two easy numbers, two easy saves. Lovely weather, a few good meals, and now they get to spend the night together. How wonderful. A good day indeed. Plus Shaw stole Bear for the night, so it's just the two of them. While Harold misses their boy, no one begged them for scraps at the dinner table, and no one is forcing his big, furry self between them and demanding their attention.
And now a good day has turned into a great evening.
John's hand begins to move, a slow slide of his palm over Harold's belly. It's a tendency John has that bewildered Harold in the beginning, but he has no complaints now. His stomach is often unsettled by stress or pain medication—though it isn't tonight—and John's attention is usually a wonderful cure. John respects that he doesn't want to be deliberately tickled or have his navel poked and prodded. John is good to him and his body. John likes it.
Something keeps drawing John to his midsection, and especially to touching and rubbing it. Since John seems to find the rounding and softness of it pleasing, Harold can think of no reason to deter him. In fact, he suspects John finds it as comforting as he does. John, unlike him, is quite tactile, and there is something of a ritualistic nature to John's caresses and massages, a pattern. Harold is quite good at noticing patterns. Patterns always have a deeper reason. If it eases some of the weight on John's poor heart, then Harold will gladly give himself over to John's hands.
At first, like always, John simply explores, his big hand drifting over the arc of cushioned flesh with ease and little pressure. Just that light touch is immensely soothing. Harold sighs and relaxes against John, letting John bear his weight, and he feels John smile against the back of his head.
Nothing is said for quite some time. John's hand roams, spreading easy calm through Harold's body with his care. Harold savors the contact, the comfort, the peace. Peace is so rare for them. It's precious and must be enjoyed.
John's fingers reach the hem of Harold's tee, pausing, waiting for permission. Harold doesn't protest—they know each other so well that that is permission enough. Soon, Harold's shirt is tugged up, his belly exposed to the cool air, and John says, "There we go. There you are."
Harold breathes out a small huff of a laugh. "You like that, then?"
"You know I do." John trails his fingers along Harold's side, where the hair is sparse and the skin is smooth. John's fingertips are rough, but his touch is not. "I like seeing you." He nuzzles Harold's ear. "I like this. You have a beautiful belly."
Harold's cheeks heat up. "I never would've had you pegged as an alvinolagniac." At John's inquiring hum, Harold explains, "Someone with a fetish for the abdomen."
"Huh." John goes quiet for a moment, his hand stilling. "I'm not, really."
"Really?"
John chuckles, his warm breath wafting onto Harold's skin. "Got a pretty big Harold fetish, though, I've gotta admit."
Affection, sweet and golden, flutters Harold's heart. Still, he can't resist teasing, "All Harolds, or just one in particular?"
"Just the one," John says. "Guy named Harold Finch. You know him?"
Harold bites back a laugh. It still shows in his voice as he says, "I'm afraid I don't."
"I'm not surprised." John kisses him behind the ear. "He's a really private person. Really nice body, though." With a light squeeze to a love handle, he adds, "I really like it," and begins rubbing again.
This time, John deepens the pressure, his fingers sinking into Harold's soft flesh, settling the calm inside him further. "I just like how you feel," John continues, "and look. It's good on you. You've got a nice belly. Soft, warm, round..."
Harold's cheeks heat up with a mix of fondness and lingering insecurities. "I thought we were talking about this Harold Finch person." A nice belly. What a baffling idea. Grace used to call his stomach her favorite pillow, but even after that, it's difficult to see his ever-expanding waistline as a feature instead of a bug. But John sounds sincere, and, with the way John keeps touching him...
"He has a nice belly, too," John says. "Nice and soft...and it seems to really like my cooking." He rubs up high, over Harold's pleasantly full stomach, and Harold doesn't bother to hold back a sigh. Oh, that feels good. Voice going low and soothing, John speaks again, saying, "There we go. Just let me take care of you," as appreciative rubbing turns to massaging.
With a smile, Harold says, "You always do," relaxing further into the press of John's fingers as they move over his abdomen. "And I have it on very good authority that a certain Mr. Finch agrees with me."
"Really?" John sounds amused. "Thought you said you didn't know the guy."
"Knowing someone and knowing someone are altogether different things, Mr. Reese—wouldn't you agree?"
"I do. And I'm glad I know you." John kisses Harold's head again. Voice going solemn, he says, "I love you, Finch. Don't really say that often enough—" He lets out a self-deprecating chuckle, then presses another kiss into Harold's hair. "—but I do."
"You say it all the time." Another surprise of their relationship has been John's openness with his affection. Taciturn John Reese has declared his love many times since Harold first said those three important words to him. It's wonderful.
"Still not enough." John's other hand slides down and joins the first on Harold's belly, both kneading it with tender pressure. Harold's eyes fall closed. Speaking of wonderful, it feels magnificent—the appreciation, the sensation. "I love you a whole lot more than you'll ever know. Not sure I can ever say it enough."
"You don't have to, my darling," Harold says, and pets John's thigh. "You certainly show it to me often. And I love you far more than mere words can ever express as well." He takes one of John's hands and brings it to his lips, kissing bruised, split knuckles. "You are incredibly dear to me, and I am grateful that you choose to be with me and care for my heart." Because he knows it will inevitably find its way back down, Harold places John's hand upon his middle and adds, "And my belly."
"Can't forget the belly," John says, giving Harold's stomach a pat. "Can never forget the belly. Or the rest of you."
John keeps on rubbing for a long time, soothing Harold further, and buries many small kisses in Harold's hair. Harold dozes, comfortable and content, savoring the touch of John's hands until his hip demands he move. Little is said as they while away the time, but words aren't necessary. For now, they are safe, they are together, and they are in love.
Yes, it has been a very good day, and Harold is so, so grateful to be so loved.